


Denial

by Pollydoodles



Series: D is For ... [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-15
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-06-08 16:20:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6862762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pollydoodles/pseuds/Pollydoodles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve doesn't think he's allowed to have the things he wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Denial

Her lips moved against his and he returned in kind, hard and hot, losing himself in the moment before pulling away hurriedly and wiping at his mouth, head bowed and eyes turned from her. She looked up at him, her little blue dress all askew from where his hands had been gripping at it, chasing his eyes but finding nothing in return. 

“We work together.” He said shortly, shaking his head and taking a half-step back from her, lest his self-control fail him. Again. 

“We do.” She conceded, and ran a hand through her dark hair, straightened for the event and hanging lower than normal as a result against the bare skin of her back that the dress revealed. 

“We can’t do this.” His blue eyes met hers then, rolling up from the floor to pierce into her. 

“We can’t?” 

He sighed heavily and pushed his hands through his blond hair, dishevelling it even more than her own little fingers had managed before, when his mouth had been sliding against hers and dragging her body flush to his own. There was a small voice in the back of his head, one that sounded an awful lot like the Bucky he remembered from the 1940s. The voice rolled its metaphorical eyes and told him in no uncertain terms exactly how much of an idiot he was being. 

“Darcy, I-“

Her eyes narrowed at him, became small little slits of blue that took in a lot more of him than he was really comfortable with. The brunette stepped back from him, smoothing down the hem of her dress, the satin shiny and sparkling under the fairy lights that Stark had insisted would decorate the ceiling for this party. 

“Don’t, Steve.” 

She cut him off, tossing her hair over her shoulder and fixing him with a look that could have stopped tanks in their tracks. He was reminded, forcibly and painfully, of another brunette girl who had stood firm against the world. The world who had looked her up and down and said, no thanks, and she’d spat back in defiance and proved them all wrong just for spite. 

“I get it.” She said shortly, turning from him, laying her bare arms against the chrome rail that edged the small balcony they’d secluded themselves in. “Well, actually I don’t get it at all, but I’ve decided I don’t care for your bullshit and I’m not prepared to put up with it.” Pushing back off the balustrade, her limbs languid and loose, she tossed him a glance that, had her words not said enough on their own, would have told him everything she currently thought about him and then some. 

Hips swinging, and his basest internal animal growling in consternation at his stupid brain, the overthinking and overanalysing he managed to somehow unerringly perform in almost every situation, from the pit of his stomach watching her, she left without affording him another look. 

He sighed heavily, and took up her position over the balcony, draping his not inconsiderable bulk over the chrome railing and staring down at the party still heaving in front of him. Bodies were pressed against each other, flush and wanting, some he recognised, some he didn’t. He blinked and then Darcy was there, threading her way through the mass of people and finding someone – anyone, he supposed – who didn’t look like him. 

Someone who wouldn’t drag her to a private corner, half-ravish her and then leave her wanting.

Steve resisted the urge to slam his forehead into the bar in front of him, and wished strongly that he was able to get drunk. That was really the only appropriate response to the situation he’d steered himself into, though he reflected fleetingly that if he were able to get hammered then there was a good chance that he’d be plowing his way through Darcy this very moment, rather than tamping back the thrum of his desire as it thumped its way through his veins. 

He didn’t deserve her, though. 

Didn’t deserve anything like she was apparently willing to give him. 

His mind ought to be on the mission, ought to be dedicated to the search for Bucky. The man he’d promised himself to find, to save. Steve – Captain America, that was – should be focused on the task at hand, not finding his hand edging up the inside of a girl’s thigh, her party dress hitching up higher and higher and his tongue down her throat, finding him straining against his trousers for more than he was owed. 

He swallowed, hard. 

He was Captain America, he reminded himself sternly. A great number of people had worked – and died – to build him into what was needed. A soldier, a man who could be counted upon. A man to stand up and get the job done. The truth of it was that his life was not his own, had not been since he’d stepped into Erskine’s chamber and asked them to keep going. He owed this body, this extended life, to the men who had thought him worth the chance. 

Pleasure and whatever else might go along with that simply didn’t figure into it. 

He absentmindedly tracked her progress through the crowd, watched as she slipped her arms around the neck of a young man who looked beyond thrilled to place his own hands upon her waist. Steve rubbed a hot hand across his forehead and told himself harshly that he didn’t care. He told himself the same thing four or five times, watching the little brunette drape herself over the excited agent, letting her body roll in time to the thump of the beat and press against the willing body behind her. 

Steve’s lip curled against his will and he decided it was time to retire for the night. 

He nursed the tumbler of whiskey, rolling it in his hand as though it would do anything for him. Sat on the balcony of his hotel room in the cool night air, he lounged his head back against the seat. He looked out over the lights of the city that jumped and buzzed despite the late hour, and wished that the liquid in the glass cupped carefully in one hand could do something to erase the memory of an eager mouth moving against his own, of small hands edging under the hem of his shirt and skating across his chest as he returned in kind. 

Steve was just on the verge of considering that it was time to hit the sack, when his ears caught a low moan on the wind. He turned his head, all the while his conscience was telling him to turn back, to switch it off, to forget what it was he thought he might be hearing. 

Because it sounded like … It sounded like Darcy. 

It sounded like Darcy, because it was Darcy. He shuffled uncomfortably in his seat, fingers grappling over the edge of the chair and skin starting to crawl under the confines of the suit he’d thrown on in deference to the occasion. Yet another Stark Industries party that Tony had wanted – had begged, even – for him to attend. Something about socialising, finding his way, adapting to the 21st century. Steve knew it was Stark code for getting his end away, but he’d turned up anyhow.

And now he was trapped, by virtue of the ridiculous sense of hearing he’d been given, along with the ridiculous body, into listening to the girl he’d long since been wanting to sink himself. He could hear her breath hitch, could practically feel the shift of the bed as she moved against it, and wanted to throw the glass in his hand at the nearest wall and watch the amber liquid inside trickle its way down the plaster. 

Darcy moaned. 

Steve’s very skin twitched in response. She was next door, just feet away from him, and he cursed under his breath that he’d not thought to find out who he’d been housed next to in the hotel. He breathed out slowly and adjusted himself in the wicker chair, almost grateful for the sharp bite of the chill on the air, giving him something else to focus on, albeit briefly. 

His imagination, working overtime, sketched for him a picture – burned in lust and carved from want, right across his fevered brain. A picture of Darcy, tangled in white sheets and pale skin bare in the moonlight where the material did not cover. Her eyes closed, head thrown back, her clever fingers finding their way down her body and under the sheets until she shivered against the mattress. He fancied he could taste her arousal on the night air, and turned his head towards the other balcony, eyes sliding down the crisp edge of the slanted dividing wall. 

He wondered then, about what she’d want from her lover. 

The slow slide of their body against hers, breath mingling together as he – the man she’d take to her bed, the man who had more sense than Steve, the man who could allow himself nice things – kissed his way lightly up her exposed neck, taking an earlobe gently between his teeth and pulling, teasing at it, before making his way back down the other side to her breasts. Worshipping her, drawing out her pleasure and sacrificing his own, settling her into his lap and letting her move against him as her back arched. 

No, he thought. 

No – not – his chest tightened and he swallowed hard against the uncomfortable feeling it left him with. Not his Darcy. Not the little spitfire who’d rolled her eyes at him, the feisty brunette who’d reacted with biting passion as he’d hauled her body against his and claimed her lips like he had a right to do so. She’d not want it slow and sensual. She was made of stronger stuff than that. She’d want him – her lover, he corrected himself quickly – to take her, hard, fast, unforgiving. Probably not in a bed, either. Against a wall, maybe even against the door to her apartment. Maybe even against the door outside her apartment, so that the world could walk past and see her claimed. 

His own breath hitched then, in tandem with the rising sound of hers from next door. 

Another voice, a male voice, joined hers and Steve’s grip tightened on the glass, so much so that he heard a tiny cracking sound and looked down to find a small spider’s web of crackling patterned across the tumbler. He sucked in a deep breath and set the glass down on the table next to him. His other hand clutched at his own thigh and dug in deep. He knew he’d be seeing fingerprint bruises for the next two days, at least. 

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Steve shook his head, willing himself to get up and walk away. Find another room, another balcony. A low gasp, Darcy’s sweet tones and clearly being drawn from her by another body, hit his ear drums like lightning splitting the sky and he revised the thoughts. Find another goddamn city. 

His body, stiffening in response to the muted sounds from next door and the decadent picture his traitorous mind was painting in red and black, did not move an inch. Steve shut his eyes tight and rolled his head against the back of the chair, finding one hand fumbling at his belt buckle almost of its own accord. A low rumble rose from the centre of his chest as he pulled at himself, hard and wanting and pressing uncomfortably against the ever-tightening material of his suit trousers. 

He tugged at himself, eyes still closed as he listened to the movements from the next room. Hand just about fitting between the stretched and tented material, yet not quite daring to take himself out entirely, he slid up and down, feeling himself harden and pulse against his touch. He could practically hear Darcy’s heartbeat as it quickened, and he winced as the sound of bed springs squeaking carried over to him. 

Still his hand gripped and pulled, and between the sounds from the room next door and the visions in his head of him pinning Darcy to his bedroom wall and hammering into her until she could only breathe his name, Steve found himself making small noises of his own to match hers. His head rolled back further and he bit hard on his lip, feeling the coppery splash of blood against the tip of his tongue as he ran it across his broken lip. Already he could feel it starting to knit back together and dazedly he wondered how far he could push that. 

 

The slide of the glass door on the other side of the concrete wall broke him harshly from his reverie and his hand jerked back from inside his pants, guilt flashing across him like strobe lighting. Darcy emerged from the hotel room, sliding the door back firmly. There was a metallic snap and a flare in the night before she took a drag on the cigarette she was holding. Whispers of smoke curled around her hand and dispersed into the cool air. 

Torn between sitting up and laying back further in the chair in the hopes she wouldn’t see him, Steve watched her. She was wearing a man’s shirt, and nothing else. The sleeves she wore rolled up haphazardly on one side, material turned over and over thoughtlessly with the other sleeve hanging long and loose, dangling over her hand. That one she wrapped around her waist and crooked the other, the one holding the cigarette, up towards her face. 

“If you’ve got something to say, now’s the time.”

Steve sighed guiltily and rose from the chair, leaning heavily on the slope of the wall that divided the balconies. He opted not to look at her, and she returned the favour, staring out across the city and sucking thoughtfully on the cigarette still. The smoke enveloped her, framed her small face and clung to the shirt she’d laid claim on. The slight wind rippled the hem against the tops of her thighs, and she shivered slightly.

Catching the movement out of the corner of his eye, Steve beat back his inner gentleman and swallowed the offer to wear his suit jacket. He had the distinct feeling that she’d probably toss it over the wrought iron balustrade if he bothered to ask. Instead he cleared his throat. 

“What would I say?”

“Something judgemental, probably.” This was accompanied by a huff of exhaled smoke. “You were listening?” 

“You didn’t-“ He cut himself off as she turned to stare back up at him, cheeks hollowing as she sucked on the cigarette that graced her little pink lips. The breeze whipped her dark hair around her head, catching strands of it across her face and sticking some to what was left of the gloss on her lips. Steve found himself with a strong urge to brush them clear, found his fingers twitching at his sides to do it. 

He resisted. 

She cocked an eyebrow at him from under all that hair, and Steve realised he’d not finished speaking. 

“He didn’t, uh, satisfy you.” He said heavily, and wrapped his hands over the balustrade in front of him to keep them occupied. To keep them from moving, one to the back of her head, the other the skim at the crease between her ass and her thigh, to stop himself from lifting her over the small wall between them and showing her exactly what he could do to satisfy her. 

“No.” Darcy agreed, switching what was left of the cigarette to her other hand, and running the other through her tangled hair as she looked out on the scattered lights of the city. The shirt she wore hitched slightly as she moved, and Steve could see a flash of pale skin, a taste of her ass that was bared to him unwittingly as she leaned forward across the wrought iron balustrade.

“And that’s… Okay?” Steve asked hesitantly, torn between wanting to know and knowing full well he had no right to ask anything from her. Darcy let out a breath and he was treated to a flashback of her mouth dancing across his cheek, his large hand cupping her own and guiding her to his own mouth, the happy little sigh that she’d let out. She pulled what was left of the cigarette from her mouth, gave it a cursory glance, then flicked it over the balcony. 

“Well you know how it goes, Steve.” She said quietly, turning to him and fixing him with a look that somehow combined both desperate anger and an innate sadness, something he’d never seen on her face before. 

“Sometimes you don’t always get what you want.”

With that, she turned on her heel and he was left, head bowed and hands shoved awkwardly into his suit trouser pockets; considering that denying himself the things he wanted wasn’t always only hurting him.


End file.
